


Canvas

by storiesfortravellers



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Apprentice - Freeform, Art, Con Artists, Heists, M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-series, Neal decides to teach an inexperienced thief and con artist how to perfect his craft. They fall for each other, travel around Europe, and try not to get caught by Peter Burke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Elr's promptfest for the prompt "Canvas."

Crime is an art, as much as winemaking or sculpture, which is why the development of criminal technique tends to work the way the Old Masters did: on the apprentice system.

But as much as Neal enjoyed giving tips on lifting, picking, and conning (particularly to good, honest citizens) Neal never actually mentored any criminals.

Except for his first.

The kid was trying to con tourists on a beach on the French Mediterranean language. He wasn’t really a kid – he was only two years younger than Neal, it would turn out – but his clumsy grifting made Neal think of him as “the kid.” Because the kid was truly terrible; nobody believed him or even found him interesting. In fact, the tourists all spoke French better than the kid did; he was American, pretending to be Scottish for some reason. 

Neal felt sorry for the kid, but he didn't want a two-bit amateur attracting police attention right before his planned heist in a local museum. So he told the kid that he was a grifter too, and that the kid would have better luck with the tourists the next town over. He thanked Neal and left.

The next day, as Neal was casing the museum, he noticed the kid tailing him. When Neal confronted him, the kid just said, “Obviously, you were planning something big if you didn’t want me around,” and grinned.

Neal paused for a moment, but then he had to grin back.

“Okay, kid,” Neal said finally, “How would you like to learn something about this business for real?”

He grinned at Neal, wide and innocent, and said yes. 

“Nick,” Neal said, introducing himself as he held out his hand.

The kid shook it and said his name was Wesley. 

Neal knew right away it was a fake name. 

\--

Wes was a quick learner. Just as Neal suspected, he was smarter than his grifts suggested; he had the talent, and he just needed guidance. (Neal was never so clumsy at deception, but he remembers how small time he was before he met Mozzie, and he sees the potential, the eagerness, in Wes that he once had).

Luckily, Wes was already skilled at most technical elements of lockpicking, and he was a quick study at alarm systems and unconventional building entry as well. It was the con that Neal really invested time in teaching him. Neal taught Wes how to present himself, to make his overtures seem to be for some better purpose. He taught Wes how to craft a persona, to layer it with mystery and just a few minor, but telling, details. To call attention to himself when it was advantageous and to disappear into the background when it was not. Wes listened to every word Neal said, quickly worked to make any corrections or improvements Neal suggested, and positively basked in Neal’s approval when he did well. 

Neal realized, with irony, that he was becoming a bit of a Pygmalion – in other words, a bit of an ass. But he decided to savor the process, the slow unfolding of Wes’ talent, like a canvas gradually achieving its layers of paint. There was a pleasure to it, watching the kid grow each day, perfecting a new skill, a new grift. 

There were other pleasures too, once Wes decided that lying low was simply too boring without some strenuous exercise. That night, Wes’ lips met Neal’s, rough, sloppy, full of heat. Neal protested that Wes was under no obligation; Wes laughed and pushed Neal gently onto the bed and said, “No kidding.” 

Neal soon discovered that Wes had more natural talents than just theft.

After that night, Neal stopped thinking of him as “the kid.”

\--

Neal postponed the museum heist until he was sure Wes was ready to help. Neal made sure to be more prepared and cautious than usual, of course.

Before, Wes was nervous, but Neal patted him on the back and assured Wes that he believed in him.

After, Wes was practically glowing with excitement, beaming at Neal as if they had just played the perfect Hamlet, as if they had just sculpted the David. He jumped on Neal as soon as they got into the hotel room, his mouth working wonders, and it was all Neal could do to tear himself away. 

“Wes, we need to be in another country by morning,” Neal said. “Let’s go.”

“Why?” Wes said, fingers pressing into Neal’s hip.

Neal resisted the urge to pull Wes onto the bed. That was the problem with having an apprentice; it meant that Neal had to be the one with greater impulse control.

“There’s a guy chasing me. Burke,” Neal said. “He’ll know this job was me.”

“He can’t be that good,” Wes said.

Neal sighed. “He’s good. Trust me. Let’s go, Wes.”

Wes sighed but did what Neal said (on matters of their profession, Wes always did what Neal said.)

They left town and arrived in Florence the next morning.

\--

Neal decided that a break was in order once they got to Italy. They wouldn’t plan any big jobs, so they could focus on training. Neal would uses the pleasures of Italy to help Wes with learning languages, practicing opening up conversations with strangers, and of course, developing excellent taste in art, architecture, food, and wine.

As expected, Wes savored every minute of it. He studied hard, every topic from frescoes to pickpocketing, and he thrived under Neal’s close attention. They travelled through Venice, then Liguria, then Capri, then Naples. They ended with Rome, because it was Neal’s favorite.

Once, Wes whispered, when they had just finished making love in a creaky bed in a century-old hotel, that he wanted to stay in Rome with Neal forever. Neal knew that Wes would be embarrassed by the admission, so he pretended not to hear. 

Secretly, he replayed the words in his head, again and again. 

Neal knew that the art of crime didn’t allow for putting down roots. Especially with an FBI agent on his tail. But he allowed them to stay in Rome longer than was strictly wise.

He didn’t realize what a mistake this was until it became brutally obvious.

\--

“Nick,” Wes said, softly, as he walked into the hotel room. He sounded terrified.

There was a knife in his hands. There was blood on it.

Neal stared at him, agape.

“Nick, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” The kid was weeping now.

“What happened?” Neal said quietly, angrily.

“I wanted to show you I could do a heist on my own,” Wes explained.

“But what _happened_?”

“The guard, he caught me. I panicked, Nick. I just panicked.”

Neal swallowed. “Where did you hit?”

“The arm, maybe. I don’t know. It was dark?”

“You don’t know?”

“It happened so fast, Nick. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

Neal paused. “Why did you bring a knife to a heist?”

“Because I was scared. Nick, I was scared to go alone, so I brought – I thought I would threaten someone if I had to, never that I would – there was blood, Nick, holy shit, there was blood and I ran and the man just yelled out in pain and I didn’t go back for him to help, I, I stabbed him, I just panicked and it was so fast and--”

Neal reached out to put an arm on his shoulder, not so much for comfort but to make sure he didn’t start sobbing loud enough for the whole hallway to hear. He looked carefully at Wes, and while he wasn’t sure what he should believe, he did believe one thing: this was the first time Wes had ever stabbed someone, the first time he had blood on his hands. The kid was shaking, had physical symptoms that would be hard to fake to a conman’s standards. 

Neal sighed. This was his fault, he knew. Wes would have never tried something like this back on that beach on France. He decided he saw potential in Wes because for some reason he had wanted to believe that Wes was just like him.

Some criminals are ruthless, violent. They pummel, slice, or shoot to get out of jams.

Some criminals are fast enough with words or feet that even if they get caught, they know they can find their way out of it. To make this method work, they can never, ever panic in the moment.

Neal assumed that Wes would be of the second type. 

He didn’t want to find out if, with time, Wes would become the first type. Or if he would just end up dead. 

It was over great objections and tearful apologies that Neal told Wes that he was not cut out for crime. That he would have to find some other craft. 

And some other man, and some other home.

Neal left him with some cash, a fake passport, and vague threats that he would track Wes down if he engaged in any more heists involving stabbings. 

He shoved his resentment, his disgust, down long enough to kiss Wes good bye. It was the kid’s mistake, but Neal knew he wasn’t without guilt either.

When Neal was in Denmark, he looked up recent attempted heists in Rome. He found out that a guard was stabbed – in the side, not the arm – but that he would live. He wanted to send money to the guard’s family, but Neal knew for a fact that doing so would mean that Peter Burke would figure out that he had something to do with it.

Neal told himself that he just didn’t want to make his trail any easier to follow. He almost managed to avoid admitting to himself that he hated the thought that Burke might see him as a violent man. 

It was the first time that Neal was truly ashamed to be involved in a crime.

He picked up the phone and called Mozzie, then Alex. He needed to be reminded of what crime really was, the purity of it, the gleam of it when it’s done brilliantly well. 

It was, after all, his chosen art. For better or worse.


End file.
